


The Dog and The Maiden Fair

by LadyTP



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flash Fic, Writing Prompt, in King's Landing, mild dub-con, play-acting, pretence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:35:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2296877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTP/pseuds/LadyTP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa finds herself on a tavern-crawl with Sandor. She pretends to be what she is not - but will Sandor take the play-acting too far? Writing prompt / flash-fiction / ACoK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dog and the Maiden Fair (The Maiden Fair)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maracuya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/gifts).



> This was an entry to LJ's Sansan-Russian-Roulette challenge for 500-700 word flash-fiction for the prompt by Maracuya: _Sansa and Sandor on a pub crawl in either King’s Landing or Oldtown.+ Bonus points if Sansa doesn’t notice she’s getting drunk; ++ More bonus points for the Hound singing/rasping about the “Dog and the Maiden Fair”; +++ More bonus points for Sandor and some other ASoIaF character having a drinking contest._
> 
> Originally this was one off, from Sansa's POV, but as per suggestion I wrote also Sandor's POV of the same events (despite swearing never to do that again...oh well!). Million thanks once again for darling Wildskysheri for beta'ing this!
> 
> As always, I recognise that I have no rights to these characters but they belong firmly to George RR Martin.

   

_**The Maiden Fair** _

_She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair,_

_But he licked the honey from her hair._

_Her hair! Her hair!_

_He licked the honey from her hair!_

 

The chorus was a cacophony, the vocals slurred. Some voices Sansa recognised, some not. The one closest to her, so close that she could smell the wine-saturated breath, was low and raspy and completely out of tune. Yet it was not the lack of melody that made cold shivers travel down her spine.

“A bear, Clegane, a BEAR! Not a bloody dog!” This speaker she knew; that crude sellsword Bronn, one of Tyrion’s men. “Thinking ahead to licking that wench of yours, eh?”

Raucous laughter, whistles and jeers. Sansa shrank even more, huddling inside a cloak covering her fully.

“Fuck your bears!”

“Come then, show us what you’ve got. Too pretty or too ugly, to be kept so hidden?”

“Don’t give a damn fuck about the face. _This_ is what matters.” Sansa felt the cloak pushed aside and the Hound’s large hand on her breast, squeezing it painfully. Instinctively she yelped and tried to withdraw but the grip of his other hand was like steel on her shoulder. _Don’t show your face. Whatever happens don’t show your face_. She bowed her head and tried to ignore the assault on her senses.

His palm was huge, completely covering her girlish breast. Its touch was invasive and vulgar. She trembled.

The singing continued but the hand didn’t withdraw as she expected. It lay there heavily, calloused fingers pressing her soft flesh and the warmth of his skin seeping through her woollen dress.

What seemed like a lifetime later he pushed a flagon into her hand. “Drink, girl.” She was shaking so she accepted the wine and gulped it down obediently. It was bitter and strong – like the man who had offered it.

Another tavern, a different song. This time he grabbed her by the waist and pressed her face against his broad chest and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. He smelled of sweat and leather and when he lifted her into a better position Sansa’s nose rubbed against the ridges of his leather jerkin. His hand flitted up her side, fingers brushing the underside of her breasts. Sansa fleetingly wondered why he was putting on the show under the cloak when nobody could see it.

Yet another winesink and Sansa started to feel better. Stronger. Ribald jokes the likes of which she had never before heard made her giggle. It was not so bad after all, she concluded, now sitting on the Hound’s lap, her bottom resting on his thigh. It was thick and solid like a tree trunk. 

“Drink up, Hound, or you’ll lose the game.”

“Fuck your games. I have a game of my own in mind.” Despite his growling the Hound lifted his flagon and greedily quaffed it down. Sansa knew what kind of game he meant and blushed. Yes, that’s what everyone thought was going to happen later. 

The Hound swayed on his seat and suddenly she became worried about how drunk he really was. Wine flowed freely - Lord Tywin’s reward to the defenders of King’s Landing - and there was nary a sober soul in the city. What better time to plan an escape?

_This is just an act. He has to do it so everyone thinks that I am just a common girl and he is just a drunken soldier._

The Hound’s hand on her thigh yanked her closer and she felt her cloak bunched up under her in a hard bundle. She wiggled to pull it free, but just as he let out a muffled groan Sansa realised it was not the cloak, but _him._ All blood drained from her face when the implication sank in.

When he got up and without warning hoisted her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing, Sansa’s heart started to hammer in her chest so loud she was sure he felt it against his back. _Come with me if you want to leave,_ he had said and with no questions asked she had followed. Like a stupid little bird fleeing from one predator’s jaws to the clutches of another.

Yet it was too late – much too late. The Hound pinched her behind with his thumb and forefinger and just as he started to climb the rickety stairs of the inn up to the sleeping quarters he turned his head and _bit_ her hip.

“Rescued you from the clutches of those lion bitches, didn’t I? Deserve my reward, don’t I?”


	2. The Dog and The Maiden Fair (The Dog)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If she wanted to wriggle, might as well do it somewhere where it did some good._

       

_**The Dog** _

_She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair,_

_But he licked the honey from her hair._

_Her hair! Her hair!_

_He licked the honey from her hair!_

Sandor cursed silently while feigning that he enjoyed the silly ditty. For good measure he changed the ‘bear’ to a ‘dog’, although he should have known better. Not that he actually minded, Bronn’s jesting giving him an excuse to feel the girl.

So damn small and fragile, teats the size of fleabites. He was accustomed to buxom wenches on the rare occasions when he wanted to feel their teats. Yet he couldn’t remove his hand from where it was resting, her little bud teasing his palm. Her young heart was pounding hard, fluttering like a bird ensnared in a trap. Aye, that’s what she was, a caged little bird. _Not in the lion’s cage anymore._

“Drink, girl.” Better to get some Dornish red into her; that might calm her down.

Another tavern, another piss poor excuse to grab the girl and press her against his chest. Sandor had never held something so delicate in his arms and he felt like a clumsy fool. Her face was pressed so close that he could smell her, and the scent of something so fine and fragrant did strange things to him. _Bloody hells!_ As if to counteract the momentary loss of his usual indifference he grabbed her teats again, gaining control with that crude gesture.

By the third inn the girl was notably tipsy. _Good on you, little bird._ To Sandor’s surprise she climbed voluntarily onto his lap, untroubled by the lewd jokes hurled at her. She giggled too, and the sound was clear like tinkling bells. He had to keep on pulling the hood lower to cover her face, curling his arm around her shoulder. It was almost as he was _embracing_ her. Hah! The Hound cuddling the Stark princess, who had ever heard of anything more laughable?

That brash sellsword Bronn was droning on about some ridiculous drinking game. Fuck that, if he wanted to drink, he drank. As simple as that. Yet the feel of the girl’s soft arse resting on his thigh and the peeks down her neckline through the folds of her cloak stirred Sandor’s blood and he felt himself getting hard. If that was not bad enough, she started to squirm. _Hells, is she doing that on purpose? The chaste maid that she is?_ Likely not, he concluded and groaned, wishing it was not the little bird teasing his cock but a wench he could actually rut with.

 _Fuck!_ That thought did nothing to cool his ardour and without really planning it Sandor yanked the girl closer. If she wanted to wriggle, might as well do it somewhere where it did some good.

Aye, that felt good, too bloody good. He grunted out loud and the girl froze. _Not quite so innocent, eh?_

She had followed him docilely, more the fool. To be honest Sandor had probably been more surprised than she, having not truly expected her to fall for his harebrained scheme. If he even _had_ a fucking scheme. _Grab the girl and leave the bloody city._

Well, he had her now. Juicy little treat in the dog’s clutches. Nobody could come between him and her, no bloody Imp walking into the room bold as brass. He could do whatever he wanted with her and none would be the wiser. He could take her to the alley where Stranger was waiting and ride out of this hellhole – or take her to a room upstairs.

Sandor’s fingers twitched on her thigh, that too so soft and supple. He wagered her skin would be like finest velvet, smooth to touch. He could almost imagine sliding his rough fingertips against it.

He made his decision. Standing up so abruptly that his flagon hurtled on the floor, he hoisted the girl over his shoulder. A few long strides and they reached the stairs. Pinching her delicious bottom was not enough so he turned his head and sank his teeth into her – not too hard, he was not completely stupid.

“Rescued you from the clutches of those lion bitches, didn’t I? Deserve my reward, don’t I?”

 


End file.
